


A Song of Madness and Courage

by Aelia_Aeldyne



Series: Things I do (temporary name) [1]
Category: A Practical Guide to Evil - erraticerrata
Genre: Also Warlock will get his comeuppance, And prepare for the fae, Cat eats a demon, Cat will go crazy, Gen, I don't sleep enough for that shit, It helps me get better, please give me feedback
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-10
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:35:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 19,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26383477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aelia_Aeldyne/pseuds/Aelia_Aeldyne
Summary: Come the battle of Marchford, Cat seeks to trigger her third aspect early, and the demon invites itself in her soul. She emerges as the victor of the confrontation, and claims its power as her own. Now no longer the Squire, who knows what lies ahead for her ?
Relationships: Catherine Foundling & Kilian
Series: Things I do (temporary name) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1917436
Comments: 11
Kudos: 42





	1. Devour

**Author's Note:**

> So yeah I had this idea in mind for a little while, finally got around to writing it. Please tell me what you think, and if I should continue or not :)

_"Strength without restraint is for a villain a call to an early grave. Yet at times, lack of restraint can prove to be the source of great villainous might."  
_ \- Talos of Ashur, the Hallowed Speaker (declared heretic in his homeland)

* * *

  
“ **Come out** ,” I Spoke.

A mocking snarl echoed my call, yet muted steps answered anyway, my Name striding out of the dark leisurely. Often had I thought about how it would look like when I'd come to face it, and now I saw that I had mostly been wrong. Beastly it was, yes, but nothing like the imposing juggernaut or the rabid hound I had believed it would be. Instead, it was a gaunt thing, all bone and muscle and sinew with no flesh at all, sparse patches of fur here and there like tattered rags. Or maybe its flesh was the shadows that writhed around its exposed muscles, dark tendrils roiling out as if they were alive. I suppressed a wince. Gods Everburning, had I been skinning my Name alive this whole time to imitate Black ?

Apparently not holding it against me, it stepped forward once more, standing tall in front of me, and I could make it out in its entirety. It was surprisingly small, for something with a growl that resounding, but in other ways it felt... fitting. It could not run fast, but it could stride for a very long time, its bleeding muscles built for endurance and adaptability. It could not bite hard, its jaws too thin to have enough power behind them, but it had gnarly fangs that even though they lacked strength could inflict wounds that would be grievous in the long play, left out to bleed and difficult to heal. Its breath was cold, and I shivered. It was the kind of monster that was not terrifying, for stories were filled with worse creatures, but it was _threatening_. A sleek, discreet predator that had its eyes on you from a mile away, hungry and coming for the kill. A carrion thing, but then was I not one too ? - a hunter of hollow silhouette, made to fell prey with a sure strike and then consume it to fill itself, till the next hunt. 

"I thought you'd be bigger", I said and instantly regretted it. I had already reacted, eyes narrowing and sword raised, ready to either die painfully or stab my Name in the eye trying not to, but then it laughed. What else could be the convulsive growl that was coming out of its throat ? If it wasn't laughter, it'd mean that my Godsdamned flayed werewolf of a Name had asthma, and I wasn't sure I was ready to accept what it meant about my personality as a whole. Wait. No, it was definitely laughing, I could hear the tinges of condescension in the deep tones of the sound, and I opened my eyes with a frown. "Oh come on ! Aren't you supposed to be a part of me or something ? I don't want to die with my Name laughing at me", I whined, pointing my sword at the thing that was waiting for us beyond the edge of the dune.

It rolled its eyes, but at least it stopped mocking me. Its eyes - I couldn't see them very well, half-hidden in the shadows of deep sockets - had turned serious. It nodded slowly, and snatched me off the ground with tendrils of shadow, before sitting me on its back. I couldn't react save for a surprised yelp in the split second it happened - but then I realized, this was for the best. It was a moment at the complete opposite of when I had thrown William off the wall in Summerholm; right now, my Name and I were in perfect unison. This desolate land was our territory. _Here be monsters,_ I thought grimly, and there could be only one. The demon had made its lair in my soul, and now we hunters had cornered it. This was going to be a dangerous hunt, for cornered beasts tended to lash out with all their might to preserve themselves.

"Let's go", I whispered. My Name growled with approval, and we sallied forth, the rider in half-plate wielding goblin steel in hand and the beast with no skin striding smoothly against the sand and the dust, its steps flowing softly against the edge of the dune as it climbed. We passed the edge.

It was waiting for us.

Or so did it feel; it was there, sitting silently on the next dune. It was immobile, lazily sprawled and looking down at the grey sand, its face hidden from sight from where we stood. It did not react to our approach, fidgeting through the dust in patterns I could not make out. One hundred and fifty feet. One hundred. Still nothing. Seventy. It sighed, the sound like a sandstorm grazing at skin with a thousand blades of wind, yet did not move. Fifty, and my Name bared its fangs, growling in defiance. Only then did it move, rising to its feet and turning its head towards us.

It was breathtaking.

Not in the way Kilian was, for not even a second could I conceive feeling attracted to a _demon_ , but it was undeniably beautiful, and at the same time equally horrifying. Its skin was pale as dawn yet bereft of shine, unmarred but with a distinct look of being covered in grease, that I had the feeling had been made from human bodies. Its eyes were thin, twin stars of whole scarlet pulsating in full with quiescent light, yet also hollowed out by unending hunger and the desire to twist Creation and every Hell into what it thought they should look like. The most surprising were its ears; at the base they were elvish-looking, long and thin, but then they curved behind the head, joining to form a halo-like arc of cartilage crowned by blood-red fire, in a manner that I absent-mindedly thought any priest would be offended by - but if the ears were what they'd be offended about a demon, they had no business being priests in the first place. Its hair was the same hue as its skin, pallid and transparent, shining with an ominous, dim pink light. Something was wrong.

From what Masego had told me, it should have been a beast lacking sentience, not that thing that looked like a fae from the old tales. Maybe it had something to do with how long it had been alive, or present in Creation anyway. I nearly admonished myself for thinking that something was wrong with the demon, but my thoughts were cut short as it spoke.

Oh, I hated its voice. It was grating against the edges of my soul, scraping the sky raw and making the very dunes retch, like a rusty blade kissing a child's throat, ugly and despised. It spoke and it said/

Oh, I loved its voice. It flowed out smoothly like warm water on the skin, making the stars shiver in pleasure and the dry soil of the wasteland grew fertile as miniscule pinkish buds bloomed. It spoke and it said/

It was a voice like any other. Neither high nor deep, loud nor hushed, it rang with words spoken mildly but seething richly with raw power. The abomination spoke and it said, sounding pained,

"Why did you come, Catherine Foundling, the Squire ? Your soul is a barren place, but it makes for comfortable bedding."

My Name and I both reeled as it called us out, but we steeled ourselves, me pointing my sword at the demon and my Name snarling and snapping its jaw.

"Oh. Tedious. Let us dispose of the matter, then. Annoyance that you are."

There was nothing, and then there was the monster we were facing. The demon had not moved an inch, but it now looked entirely different. Black chitin-like armor had grown around parts of its body, its limbs were ended by claws and talons - all sharp and serrated, I noted - and two butterfly-like wings had deployed in its back, tall as an ogre and half as wide, looking like a mosaic made of shattered crystals, all curves and round shapes yet undeniably sharp, framed by curled twigs of bone, and in the middle... eyes, two large round eyes with round red pupils and black sclerae, bloodshot by veins of silvery ichor, erring left and right and looking at me all the while. It was wreathed in crimson fire, the flame both shrouding him in crackling vermeil smoke and shaped in fashion of armor over the parts that the black shell did not cover, and in its back a cape was flowing that was made the same silver there was in its wings' eyes, reflecting the absent light of a moonless night.

It screamed, and we _burned_. In a deafening roar, the flame that surrounded him blasted outwards like a tide, glassing the sand in the shape of howling faces and reducing us - me mostly - to bare bone and muscle. Good side of it, I still had my plate and sword. Slightly more inconveniencing side of things, I was fucking flayed and on fire, and Gods Above the pain/

/I screamed hoarsely as a spike of chitin went through my stomach and my spine both, pain surging upwards like a demented tide of claws grasping at my flesh, and I fell down as all sensation beneath the wound was fading. My Name was fighting with the demon further ahead, I could hear it. I couldn't see it anymore, and I could not remember why, my mind covered with a blanket of pain and adrenalin that prevented me from forming further coherent thought. I was left to crawl forward, every breath a torture as air hissed through my lungs and scratched my throat. I had been flayed alive by demonic fire, corrupting demonic fire, even, and still this was the most painful thing I'd been put through yet. Probably because I was otherwise aching all over so ridiculously that my nerves had taken leave for the time being, and because I was afraid I'd die on the spot if I didn't focus so hard on breathing.

I grunted. My memory was fragmented and nigh-impossible to make sense out of, but I managed to grasp one of the shards, trying to understand how in the hells I had ended up unable to see. I couldn't help but wince as the scene formed in my mind, the afterrmath of the distress of being deprived of sight finally settling in the back of my consciousness; the demon had dashed forward, a blade formed of its own ichor coalescing in its hands, and it had gone for my head. I had been swatted away like an insolent fly and it'd been only because I had bent backwards to not be decapitated in a single stroke that I had managed to only lose my eyes.

Returning to the reality of my soul, I knew that I did not have much time left, life already seeping out of me. Using the noise of the fight ahead of me, I crawled forward as fast as I could, every motion feeling like the weight of the whole world was pressed upon my shoulders. I was hearing my bones creaking and snapping, but that might have just been my fevered mind making things up. It seemed like an eternity before I reached something that wasn't sand or glass, and it felt cold to the touch, dripping with a chilly, viscous liquid that sent shivers through my body. Demon. It was thrashing under the weight of my Name, I guessed, and it was not focused on me. My sword was still in my hand, I noticed absent-mindedly. I raised it, mustering in my arm whatever strength I had left, and I did what I do best. Once, twice, thrice, I stabbed and the demon _screamed_.

The steel broke, splinters of metal flying around - some through my body, though amidst the ambiant pain I barely noticed them, and my whole body was shook by the impact. No more sword. I screamed in echo, and I lurched forward, my hands grabbing desperately at anything they could find beneath their fingers. Touch. Grasp. Hold. There was something, I was holding it, it was slipping away/

/I choked on another scream as a searing sensation told me that my hands had been cut off haphazardly, torn apart by the flick of something sharp but with raw edges. I could no longer walk, I could no longer see, I could no longer grasp. I was bleeding out from my entire body, bones bare and muscles torn, barely even remembering who I was. In the end, it was me who'd fulfill the role of the rabid dog snapping its jaw at the dark, desperate and lost and trying for the last it could do to survive. And so I bit. Flesh otherwordly, writhing beneath my teeth; I tore it off and bit again. There was noise, but I did not pay heed to it. The entire world was screaming, why would I care ? All I wanted was to bite the life off that damned thing. Once more, and there was a noise very close to me.

Chittering that reached down deep within me, the buzzing of a maddened butterfly, wings batting with the sound of crackling flame and broken bones. It was there, I thought. The true source of the power. It was thrashing against my face, but I snapped my teeth down on it; it stung me, but I tore away at it, the fragments of shell and lymph tumbling down my throat, setting my entire body aflame with power from within. I did not relent, driven as much by rabid madness as by a desperate instinct of survival. It felt it die in my jaws, my teeth finally finding purchase in its vital parts. I swallowed, and the world went black, fading as the voice that was screaming had lost its otherworldliness, sounding all too human for me to die quietly after hearing it./

/Under a starlit yet moonless sky, I was to die. I did not know whether my eyes were working again, or if I was already dead and dreaming. Both were satisfying explanations, as far as I went - neither mattered at this point, so why care ? I could hear my Name whimpering sadly against my back, so I guessed I had yet to die. Maybe I was dreaming anyway. I was in a sitting position, it seemed. Thoughtful of it, I mused, not that it mattered much. I could feel death creeping up within; too many grievous wounds, too much blood spilled on the sand, too much of myself shattered apart on this battlefield. I tried to sigh, only managing to throw up a mix of demon ichor, blood and what I assumed to be part of my own guts. Guess it had been too tough of an enemy for me as I was now. I was only the Squire, after all, and I had tried to take on a demon of Corruption inside my own soul. What an idiot I made, I thought with something like dark amusement. There wouldn't be many to mourn me - those who would were likely to die soon after me, and Black would probably forget me once he'd have taken a new Squire. 

Then I heard steps in the sand in front of me. Slow, unsteady, irregular. 

"Coming to finish it ?" I coughed out. The voice, its voice, replied with an equally pained groan. It was shocking to hear. The tones were unchanged, but it was devoid of all power. It no longer sounded like the beautiful horror from before.

"This battle is yours, Catherine Foundling. I will die before you do, and you earned this victory through your teeth - quite literally. Due is to be given. From a dying prince to a dying Squire, 'tis the last I can do."

There was a blurry thing in front of me, white and red and feeling almost dead, and something I felt was a blade came to rest upon my shoulder. The moment felt solemn, but all I could feel was the desire to close my eyes and fall asleep. I resisted the urge, if only a little.

"By victory earned through bloody battle and glorious deed, yours no more is the Name of Squire, for you have become something greater. Walk newfound paths, claim new victories, and in a thousand years, may yours be this song of madness and courage. By the will of my name as/ /I give you freedom and my last spark so that your own ember may be rekindled. Burn well and burn bright, Catherine Foundling."

Silence fell, and something swelled up within me. A new Name, I understood. It was muddled and unclear, and remained yet to forge in full, but the demon had been right. Squire, I was no more. The beast behind me growled in approval, and I heard that it too had been changed by this. We were something else, now. Something more. My vision cleared up, and I witnessed a scene that I knew would forever be committed to my memory. In front of me, surrounded by a dozen dunes of gray sand, was a transparent statue, laying at the center of a ring of glassed sand. It was the demon, I recognized. In its hand was a red gleaming orb, made of the same power I could feel in myself. Last, there was a sword stuck in the glass in front of the statue, gently shining with dim light. It felt surreal, to witness everything to be so motionless, the stars above reflected in the glass like small jewels.

I groaned as sensation was slowly returning to my entire body, and I could finally notice that I was not the broken wreck I'd expected myself to be after that fight. My hands were back, my legs could move - I shook them weakly just to be sure, my eyes could see, and apparently my skin and my hair were back too. Using the presence of the beast behind me, I tried to hoist myself up, and nearly fell over as my left leg almost gave out beneath me. I stumbled forward painedly, till I reached the sword. My hand slid around the handle, and it fit perfectly. I had the feeling that were I to unearth it, it would suit me better than any other weapon. And so I took it out. A straight blade, over forty inches long and weighing a little under three pounds; it was red and white, crimson lines melding in clearer shades like oil in water - ivory, bone and snow were spread along the surface of the blade, deathly pale and eerily beautiful. The tip of the blade was triangular, I noticed; slightly larger than the rest to add a little weight to the swings and pierce to the thrusts. The guard was very detailed, a grinning demon's head whose horns were the sides, the eyes filled with shining rubies. The pommel was a simple sphere of jasper with white veins, and it rang out nicely against my nail.

Looking up, the last thing was the small orb of power in the statue's hand. I reached out, grabbing it in my palm. It was thrumming, pulsating with power that was both utterly foreign and yet entirely mine; most importantly, it was full, filled with things I could only glimpse at for the briefest instants and barely comprehend - if I even could at all. Then I understood. It was a fruit bearing seed, the legacy of something old and mighty; I wondered what would my dreams be made of, with my Name being inheritor to a demon. It felt ripe, and I bit down on it. Bite after bite, I **Devoured** it, and it devoured in turn, swallowing three aspects to make one greater. _Eat, consume, appropriate,_ it was whispering in my ear. _I am the only one truly yours, everything else is awaiting the claim of your teeth._ Power flooded my body, pounding at my ears; the world was fading in broad strokes as night fell over my mind, and my eyes closed.

I woke up bleary-eyed to Kilian's worried face and Hakram's ever-serene visage, the latter being tossed a coin by a tall, dark-skinned man that I vaguely remembered being Apprentice.

"Told you she'd make it, Warlock's get."


	2. Stir

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Fayhem and Kitebroken for their comments - helped me clear out the first chapter a lot. So here we go for the second chapter.

" _Even if wrought out of the best steel, chains and seals will fail when death claims its due. No slave can be bound forever._ "  
\- Magister Kallistos of Stygia

* * *

Even as faces turned towards me, painted with relief at me coming awake at last - Kilian's - serene calm as if he never had doubted that I'd wake - Hakram's - and somehow satisfaction of which I could not find the cause - Masego's - I felt oh so very tired.  
I just wanted to turn over and fall asleep again, sleep till last dusk - or more reasonably, until the devils came screaming now that I had killed and eaten their master. But I was strapped to what looked like a stone table, behind no less than... Well damn. Forty layers of wards, or almost. Couldn't tell him he'd gone overboard, though. We had been, after all, dealing with a demon. 

"So, " I grunted sleepily, "Anyone care to explain how I ended up like this ?"

Adjutant nodded, voice gravelly as usual. "Apprentice triggered the Name dream by poking your forehead, which made you fall unconscious. During the two days that you were out-"

I interrupted, a bit disbelieving. "Two days ? The vision lasted half an hour at best, give or take five minutes where I was too busy screaming to remember. Doesn't add up."

Apprentice cut in, in the same academic tone he used every time he wanted to explain something. "Until three hours ago, you had a loose demon of Corruption running wild in your very soul, Catherine. Assuming that you were still effectively Catherine at the end of the Name trial, your entire being was in need of an extended period of rest."

I raised an eyebrow as best as I could. "Assuming I am still myself ? Shouldn't be too hard to prove. Aren't demons of Corruption supposed to turn people into mindless beasts ?"

He scoffed, but I could see him trying to hide a smile. "In this matter, your ordeal has been of a great help for my studies," he said triumphantly. "I have established a handful of primordially important points on the topic of diabolism, that can potentially further the common understanding of the discipline by several years. But back to the matter at hand, yes, you are right. However, this truth does not cover the very specific case of becoming a demonhost through a Name trial and then forcing it to coalesce its essence entirely within oneself before extinguishing it and assimilating it onto your very soul."

Noticing the looks from... from everyone in the room, in fact, he aborted his explanation to go straight to the point, which I must say I was thankful for. "However, after binding you in the most secure manner I could conceive short of bindings designed to restrain lesser gods, I proceeded with an operation that your inferior minds would understand as dissection, and discovered that while you had indeed been tainted by the demon, you had also irrevocably extinguished its existence in a most final manner, then absorbed most if not all of its power and grafted its upon your ruin of a Name to create something entirely new."

He paused, before staring at me through his spectacles in a very thorough manner. "All I can say as of now and without further diagnosis is that yes, you are still yourself for the most part, but your soul is irremediably damaged in manners that I do not fully grasp. For one, physical injuries that your incarnation suffered during the Name trial have high chances of carrying over."

I nodded, grasping his meaning. "The limp," I rasped. "It's never gonna go away, isn't it ?"

He acquiesced. "Most likely. As the wound was I assume grievous, the probability is high that the pain would remain even if you chose to replace your leg by a prosthetic. Secondly, fragments of your soul have been... Torn off, destroyed or lost, in ways I could not determine. I presume that this will translate into a sense of longing and a lack of fulfillment, for you are now metaphysically unable of being whole. Thirdly, as you assimilated the demonic essence, your Name transitioned into another, but the effect of Corruption consumed your three aspects to forge another. While it is stronger than a singular aspect, it is still comparably weaker than three normal aspects put together, as far as I can tell. And, of course, your Name isn't Squire anymore, but I think you could have found this one out yourself."

I nodded and sighed, and tried to gesture about the bindings. "Yeah. The demon told me as much. Something greater, it said. Burning Hells, I don't even know what my Name is... Also, possibility to get free ? Feels like someone is in desperate for hugs," I said while eyeing Kilian, who went halfway through flushing and crossing the wards before stopping herself. Apprentice took one last long look at my soul, then nodded, waving his hand, and I felt the pressure wane away. The shackles undid themselves, and it was a very cute redhead crying in relief that embraced me.

I got off the stone table, returning the embrace in the smooth silence that had fallen, punctuated only by Kilian's relieved sobs. Hakram cast me a questioning glance, and I softly nodded in return. He walked towards the door, patting Masego's shoulder as he passed by, prompting him to follow him out. I stayed here with my redhead, nested against each other in silence. Gods, it felt good. Our eyes crossed, and we leant forward to kiss. It felt like a promise, that not even the Hells themselves could keep us apart. Till we ran out of breath, we kissed, and I would not have given that moment for anything in the world. When we finally broke apart, it was with a slightly wonder-filled voice that she spoke. 

"You taste like blood and redcurrant", she whispered. "Like sadness and sorrow, and the joy of seeing a new sunrise." There was a small pause, then she added with a smile, "I love it." I smiled back, and I said, "Let's wait till tonight, and I'll let you savour it more." She acquiesced softly, and we walked out of the dim-lit room with our fingers intertwined, our eyes bright and our hearts light.

The light was blinding and the cheers - mostly goblin-based, I managed to make out - deafening. Once my eyes went back to normal light perception, I saw a warm afternoon sun high in the sky of Marchford and my whole senior staff assembled in the room. Masego and Hakram were here, of course, the first half-smiling, half-inquisitive and already thinking of what manners of experiments he could run me through, I was ready to bet - I'd for once be happy with the experiments, since if I had demon juice in the veins, I'd rather know what it could do sooner than later; Adjutant, same as ever, was quirking up with the barest flash of fangs, enough to denote respect and close friendship but not wide enough that it'd mean anything more romantic. Juniper and Hune were present too; Juniper wasn't scowling, which I took to mean was the supreme expression of happiness to her, and as usual, Hune's face was unreadable, though something like appreciation flashed for a split second. Aisha, ever well-bred and raised, was managing to keep a proper facade, though the glint in her eyes coupled with the slight curve of her lips and the twitching of her hands showed her elation. Next to her, Ratface was more blatant, a wide shit-eating grin popping on his face as he bumped fists with Robber - talking about him, the little green shit was smiling like goblins do, but as soon as I appeared able to hold a discussion, he rushed towards me, making a small sidestep to avoid Pickler, who was standing next to him and let out a tired sigh as he did so.

"Hey Boss. What happened to the demon ? Please tell me you killed it before eating it. I've got a ton of money running on that right now."

I looked at my senior sapper with an impish smile. "Killed it by eating it, Robber. Mourn your money."

Looking absolutely unfazed, he replied in the same flippant tone. "Nah. I think it's legal grounds enough to make it a draaaaaw-" Archer had appeared out of nowhere and was hoisting him up by the neck, and he let out an angry hiss. "The only legal grounds there are here are at knife's length, Rubber. And mine's bigger," the Named said. Robber looked pained at the obviously intentional mispelling of his name, but paid Archer and withdrew without further comment as soon as she had let him go. 

I eyed the people in the room, before sharpening my gaze and asking out, "So, what's the situation out there ?"

And just like that, the aura of unconcern that was upon the room vanished. Not that it had been replaced by tension, they were still all looking quite relaxed, but they had the serious gazes of people meaning business. I took a seat next to Aisha, Kilian settling by my side, and we began.

Juniper opened the dance, the Legate looking obviously enough quite satisfied with the situation, and I saw her gaze was carried towards Masego and Pickler. "City's been warded up as best as we can manage, and the kill zone has been clearly set up and proved functional."

I raised an eyebrow at the last part. "Proved functional ? What happened ?"

"Devils tried the defences half a day ago. Skies turned black all over town and there was a storm of red lightning in the sky. Fuckers rushed in like they would tear the manor down or die trying. They all died, of course. Apprentice's warding contained them in the lane, and Senior Sapper Pickler's engines did wonders to thin their numbers before they hit Nauk's shield wall. After that, only clean-up was left. We didn't commit mages to the main assault, and we had crossbows deal with the fireflies."

I nodded approvingly. Sound decision, with mage-takers in the enemy ranks. "Alright. Keep going like that, Legate." She flashed her fangs in approval, and I turned my head to Hakram. The tall orc leant forward, his deep voice finishing the explanation he had started earlier in the backroom. "As I was saying, you were out cold for two days, Catherine. Given your explanations and Apprentice's, I'd surmise that the devils tried our defences on the moment the demon died, out of desperation maybe." I nodded in assent. Made sense. If they'd been bound to the same standard, the demon must've been somewhat of a general for them, and I'd slain it brutally. After that they'd see me as a threat, and tried to end me there and then.

Turning my gaze to the ogre in the room, I asked mildly. "Civilians ?"

Hune replied equally, unruffled. "Calm. The devil assault and the red storm saw them quite unsettled, but Aisha managed to keep it down almost entirely. There's been one brawl with legionaries, but Adjutant stepped in to stop it and explained to the farmer that they had to either comply with martial law or share their bed with devils. I think it cooled them down significantly."

Hm. Not the best that could happen, but short of it. As always, Hakram had the knack to find the right words at the right time, and my Taghreb officer had done a good work keeping civilians calm. I eyed Ratface, and he winced as he guessed what I was going to ask him about. "Supplies ?"

"Rationing for the civilians, still got three days full for the legionaries. But we're stuck," he grimaced. "Enemy hosts on two sides, and we're back to the river anyway. If the devils bloody us too badly, Heiress could just camp her army in the way of our supply train and we'd be left to starve until we're too weak to resist her."

Well, that was one grim assessment of the situation, but given Ratface's habit of keeping everything down to the number in his reports, I knew he was talking knowingly and not trying to darken the scene with ominous warnings. I nodded in understanding, and turned to Juniper.

"Assuming the devils attack tomorrow, how dirty can it get ?"

The Legate replied without missing a beat, "If the devils stay contained by Apprentice's warding, we've got them dead to rights." Well now, wasn't that a guarantee that they'd find a way around it... Eh, maybe not. They were devils, not Named. But Juniper was still speaking and I focused on her again. "- Main threat's gonna be the five hundred or so corrupted cataphracts," she said. "Tough things, just as armoured as they were at Three Hills and now twice as resilient. Even a sharper in center of mass won't down them for good, you got to cut the head off once they're brought low. And they're cunning, for devil-beasts. Sandwiched Hunter in a two-pronged charge when he tried to engage their leader in single combat, trampled him down and filled him with demon juice."

I violently cursed in Taghrebi, something about vultures, piss and a father's grave, which obviously drew the gazes of everyone in the room. I grunted.

"Everyone, dismissed. Hakram, Masego, Pickler, Archer, you stay. We've got to make a plan to kill a Corruption-touched Hero."


	3. Interlude: Rustle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After quite the delay, here it comes...

" _Waxing moon, fortune to come. Full moon, enjoy while it lasts. Waning moon, dread closes in. New moon, shiver in the dark._ "  
\- Kharsum saying, believed to have been spoken by chieftain Rurik Steel-splitter of the Waxing Moons clan

* * *

Akua Sahelian was smiling. It was a beautiful thing, this smile on her face, but it was also terrible. There was no joy in that smile, no elation in that curl of her lips, for it was a villainess' smile and those were always hard and cold. But oh, how she was burning inside. From a setback had came a greater gain, and her enemy was bound to have been weakened by her opening move. She'd hoped for an outright crush, but she would settle for a bleed. Foundling and her forces would have taken losses from destroying her original demon, there was no doubt about that; that the Squire had been able to destroy the thing had been unforeseen and honestly unexpected, but then she _was_ the Squire, and she'd snatched equally difficult battles out of defeat's maw. This engagement only had higher stakes, for a Named with Catherine Foundling's mindset, as far as Heiress could grasp. Even in this advent, however utterly impossible it had been, there was a brighter side. When the demon's existence had been snuffed out, so had been a hero's. Hunter, foolish man that he was, had been trampled down by demon-tainted foes and had risen again in her service. He made for a satisfying replacement to the demon, his aspects corroded into a mockery of what they once were, his existence bound to the standard in a manner almost identical as the demon was, but it was enough. Enough for her to **Control** him, direct their power as she willed.

As things currently stood, Akua Sahelian had the upper hand in the situation at Marchford. At her command was a battalion of devils - mostly beasts and surgery tools, with a yet-untipped hand of aces - the kind that had grown old. Foundling had destroyed one of the five greater specimens, but the last four now had knowledge of her powers. She also had the remnant of the Silver Spears, those foolish Helikean mercenaries who had gotten themselves whipped like rabid dogs at Three Hills and now again when she had claimed ownership of the demon. Half a thousand cataphracts, though now closer to devil than man, and seven hundred equally corrupted footmen. Even that number was superior to Foundling's forces, she expected; not that she would put much stock in numerical superiority, not when the opponent had the likes of the Hellhound at the lead. Talking about the opponent... The Fifteenth was due to start running low on rations and fresh soldiers. Stuck at the ford's marches, with ten thousand civilians to watch for, no recent recruits and mostly importantly they had just come out of a bloody exchange with the Silver Spears. They would be _tired_. Finally, Heiress had at her disposal a rough thousand of proceran mercenaries, those so-called _Fantassins_. What they were worth had been determined when one wing of the Silver Spears had collided with her army, and the Helikeans had not come out victors - or come out at all, for that matter. 

She could not afford to gloat, not even in mind, before a crucial engagement like there would be today. That would lead to her inevitable defeat and much higher risks of death in the coming hours. Dread Emperor Irritant had proved that defeat came in finite quantities, but Akua did not have enough foes on hand that she could afford to truly make into foes - not if she wished to survive long enough to enact her master plan. As a tradeoff, Akua allowed herself to linger in the moment that she was living.

She was currently lying on a couch wide enough for two, and sure enough there was another occupant by her side. The soft dark red fabric had been imported from Thalassina, just like the person beside her. A slip of a girl, barely nineteen years old and frail like a dove in a storm. Every breeze must feel like a tempest, to people like her, Heiress mused. The girl had strong magical powers, even if she wasn't an equal to the Apprentice, and more interesting she was said to have oracular abilities, which had made the bargain struck very profitable. Protection for her and her sister back in Thalassina from anyone save Assassin and Malicia herself, in exchange for ten years of service. She was a refreshing addition to Akua's posse, truth be told. She had the innocent bluntness inherent to people without much social skills - which would have made her a helpless lamb for any of the wolves in her circle if Heiress had not made clear that even if she gave slight, she was too precious to be harmed - and an unusual degree of clarity that she had yet to find the source of.

She was also good-looking, Akua admitted, in the way second or third daughters of impoverished nobles were. A finely crafted piece of art, brimming with pure intent and a desire to succeed, but obviously missing time or resources. She was... odd, for lack of a better word. Hazelnut-coloured skin, denominative of mixed ancestry; hints of Taghreb and Ashuran, and something else that was less human in nature, because it just blended in too well. A grim face softened by lips that were quick to quirk up; even if life had roughed her up, she still looked at the better side first. Hair thin like wisps of smoke and shining like a cascade of obsidia, dulled by the feebleness of the source; her mane was full and growing, but her body was weak, muscles born atrophied and bones embrittled by a failed healing spell that had cost his life to the well-meaning practitioner who attempted it. Last were her eyes, and they were what unsettled Akua. Orange drawing on red, like a candle's flame, always an instant away from being snuffed by always stronger than believed, and a drop of gold spinning in those irises that made Heiress uncomfortable. Marks of high birth were after all not easily hidden. The thing that made the rest of her people - those who did not have Name sight - uneasy was the smoke-grey hue of the girl's sclerae, and Akua could only think of three kinds of creatures that would bring such an attribute in the blood. One was long-disappeared, thoroughly exterminated by the Miezans during the War of Chains, the second was dangerous enough that not even the Aksumite had attempted to mingle with them - she could not speak for the Taghreb, for the sand-folk sometimes were bold enough to try the devil, sometimes literally - and the third would have very problematic consequences. Heiress could definitely not afford to battle with even one of the Emerald Swords.

But uneasiness waned when pleasure took the step, and now that she was asleep by her side, Akua Sahelian was beholding her beauty in full, without any of the accompanying feelings of disquiet that followed her pupil's gaze. She had been an enlightening experience, in some ways. The sheer candour of her had been refreshing, and Akua had taken herself to the game, finding her pliable in study as well as in bed. Eager to learn. Given a few months to mold that softest clay and a few more to bake it, Creation would do the carvings by itself, and Akua Sahelian would have an utterly loyal and capable second. They were rare, the occasions when the world itself delivered what she needed in her hand. She had to be careful, though. The will of the Gods was a fickle thing, and one misstep would cost her the dance - too blatant the error, and she would come at the end of her play. Now though, she was relishing. Softly sliding out of the couch, she pulled a blanket over the girl's sleeping body. It was only in those most private moments that Akua would ever let herself be anything else than the ruthless aristocrat Tasia Sahelian was trying to forge her into. Her little spots of rebellion, banners of revolt raised in the corners that no one else than her could witness.

Then the softness slid off, and only Heiress remained. It was a bell past midnight, and there would be as much time before sunup, but she had duties to attend to. The fate of her enemy to decide, first of all. On the premise that Catherine Foundling had been corrupted by the demon that the Silver Spears had accidentally unleashed, Akua would find herself obligated to torch Marchford and its every occupant, then burn the ashes and scatter the ashes' ashes wide enough that no necromancy could be used on them. That the lord Warlock would be unable to call forth the Squire's remains would be an unpleasant side effect, but greater risk for the Empire would have been avoided. Lord Black, she thought, would certainly see the logic in her actions, even though he would require proof of Foundling's corruption before publicly endorsing Akua's course of actions. She would run the scheme by Fasili and see to the specifics with him and that proceran bootlicker Arzachel, Heiress decided. Her smile returned, blade-sharp.

Something was tugging at the edges of her consciousness. Not her Name, but her magic. Ah. Hunter had joined with the greater devils, and the Silver Spears had begun to move on instinct. She sharpened her will, and through the link that she had with the age-old standard inherited from Triumphant's - may she never return - era, ordered the fallen hero and the devils to join with the Helikeans for a total assault at dawn.

Behind her, the girl stirred, and those eerie eyes were directed at her, Akua saw. The girl spoke, voice soft like honey but too low-pitched to fit a woman of her age, and she had a slightly pouting expression on her face.

"It is too soon to leave the sheets, _Kafila_. Please come back to bed, I still long for your warmth."

Earnestness, and wanting, which was good. A title, too, instead of her given name, which was a point that needed improvement still. She wanted the girl to feel like she was close to her, and the word that she had just used was a far cry from that. Taken from the Taghreb tongue, it would translate to "Legal guardian" or "Patron" in Lower Miezan. Akua smiled at her, replying in Mtethwa in the same motion.

"Zeliah dear, please stop calling me this. Akua will do very well. Besides, you should sleep more. Dawn comes in a bell, and you have no task that requires your waking this early."

The other scoffed, the expression carrying the whole of her opinion on the matter.

"What are you, my Lady, if not that ? Respect I owe you, not familiarity. There is no blood in my veins worth yours, and we both agreed to see my fate become your responsibility. The least that I can do is follow in your wake."

Akua sighed, and put the barest bit of power in her words.

"If that is what you want... I command you to rest longer, Zeliah. You are of no use to me if you are weakened by exhaustion." _More than you usually are_ , she did not add. For all the gifts she might have, Zeliah lacked endurance. In a contest of skill, she would outclass her enemy seven times out of ten, and that was without Akua's advanced training, but in a slugging match she would come out the worst, her body coming apart at the seams under the pressure of continued casting.

She had not liked the order, Akua saw, but it had been necessary. Frustration was grinding against sadness on Zeliah's face, dusted into disappointment at her own weaknesses.

"If that is your will, _Kafila_."

She slid back under the blanket, her tone hollow as she mumured the words.

Akua did not care about her anymore. That feeling of being insufficient was something she would have to nurture in the coming months, to give greater malleability to the material she had to shape, but for now Marchford was taking all of her attention.

Hunter was walking in the middle of the cataphracts, amusingly enough given some berth by the corrupted riders even though any of them was his equal in power. Corruption would have dulled their acquired skills, though, and sharpened their instincts, so they knew better than to challenge the fallen Hero. Hunter raised his spear, and the Silver Spears ceased movement. The devils were stirring, as they would serve as the first wave of the attack. The four trumps had remained with Hunter, and the Helikeans spanned around the city, remaining unseen as the hellspawn moved forward and the battle of Marchford began in true.


	4. Interlude: Prowl

" _Note to self: blind practitioners do, in fact, not fare well in situations of goblin tunnel warfare, despite the absence of light._ "  
\- Personal research notes of Dread Emperor Sorcerous

* * *

The sappers were jeering.

One of them had apparently shared a jest, and it had garnered in the same motion amusement and contempt from the others. Well, that was the way with sappers; one full goblin, two thirds madness, one third machinery and one third explosives. And who cared if it didn't add up ? Not them, at least. But Robber wasn't listening to whatever idiocy his cohort had managed to scrounge up. Dawn was coming soon, and the tribune was feeling anticipation crawling in his skin. Metaphorically, at least. He wasn't sure if anticipation could be made into something physical, but he wasn't going to take the odds when there was demon fuckery around. And so he was standing on a rooftop near the border of the town, squinting towards the edge of the woods. There had been a foul scent in the air coming from that direction that woke him up around half past midnight bell, and he hadn't been able to sleep since then. But nothing had come out, and so he'd kept watching warily.

Ah. Motion. Between the trees, something was coming out. His gaze focused, the familiar feeling of his eye tissue stretching to shrink his irises. Goblin eyes were little wonders of perception, but they were a natural weak point - even more so than for the larger races. So many nerves and other useful bits that he never bothered to learn the names of were bundled there, which made the entire organ very, very sensitive. He blinked once, twice and fixated his gaze on the spot where he'd seen suspicious vibrations a second before. Green-black dots the size of a human fist and buzzing madly came out of the bushes, spread in a staggering wave maybe three to four yards wide. The fireflies; mage-takers, had Apprentice warned them. Less than sixty, but over fifty. Not dangerous to his cohort, lest they let themselves be overrun. Robber whistled acutely, and the laughs died down in seconds. He could feel the house ever so slightly vibrating beneath his feet as the bigger players approached.

"Ready yourself, my lovelies. Fun is about to begin. Our pretty fireflies are exposing themselves for live target practice. Remember what I told you ?" the yellow-eyed tribune asked.

"SHOOT THEM DOWN, STAB THE REST" the sappers bellowed, and the Tribune laughed delightedly, wiping a fake tear from the corner of his eye. Considering that goblins didn't even have tear ducts, it was absurd and all the more amusing for it.

"Onwards, then, my evil minions", Robber yelled with a cackle. They'd have to make sure that the mage-takers were wiped before letting the rest enter the killzone, but that'd be like a field trip for a crazed sapper cohort like his, given how weak to crossbow bolts the fireflies had proved to be.

Ah, the joys of being a madman. He'd never get tired of that.

-

Buzz buzz buzz went the fireflies, a maddening cacophony of echoing vibrations in the air of Marchford. They were many, but in a sense they were only one. They didn't have thoughts, or differences. All devils come out of the same identical mould that had existed since times immemorial and never failed to fulfill its purpose. Threat, desire, endowment were the words of a mage-taker's meaning. Threat, for their hunger was endless and it was sanity they craved; Desire, for their presence was prize as much as price and their gifts were great; Endowment, for binding with one whom the gods had bestowed with sorcery brought the mage significant benefits, and no matter how important the disadvantages were. And they buzzed buzzed buzzed, the litany of a hellish swarm's unslakable thirst for snippets of souls. 

They eagerly flew forward, coming out of the woods where the will of the great one had had them constrained until now, and they dashed forth towards the lights they could see. There was a lot of inert matter there, stone that didn't burn and thatch that did, wood that burned and clay that didn't; there were also things that the fireflies disliked. Iron and steel and the touch of metal, for metal was always aimed at them with harmful intent. Lesser were the living things. There were some close to the summoners who turned them into dust for their experiments, but none bestowed with magic. They could feel the malice and the gleeful madness within, still. Shame that those weren't mages, the swarm buzzed in unison. Great things always came out of the minds of the madmen. 

And there was something that the fireflies would have wept at, if they could have. It was a magnificent thing that the bugs beheld. A web, a net of fiery threads, strings woven from hearths into a complex tapestry that prevented them from going past it. It was a weave of symbols and intent, a bulwark by thread spun out of ember, and the swarm found it a wonderful work. But it was opposing them, and it saddened them. Why would such a skilled practitioner refuse their embrace ? What a shame. But... One of the fireflies had found an opening in the tapestry; rather, it was folding upon itself, unfurling from the center of the inert-matter work from one side to the other in some sort of boundary effect that a greater devil than they would have surely loved to study. The swarm remembered. When the time would come for them to return to the realms below, they would transmit this information. It was not a ground-breaking work, but the theory behind it was interesting. It shared roots with the Great Enslaver's magic as well as the Great Summoner's, but it was different in execution; where the first had woven formulas that left no means to escape, the second had sought only to unleash their destructive potential, and they loved her all the more for it, even though she had restrained them. She had given them Creation as a playground, and they had revelled.

The swarm engulfed into the opening, and was met with sharp steel flying down and iron barbs attached to iron wires flailing through its ranks. Pain, pain, pain went the fireflies as they entered the confines of the battle.

-

The rest of the lesser devils had followed, Robber saw, and he smiled a goblin's smile, far too wide and filled with too many teeth for anyone to remain comfortable when displayed. Well, except Named. And orcs. And the Boss. Who was a Named. But they weren't really normal people. The Named, at least, he corrected mentally. They were like, three fifths people and one half madmen, all of them. And somehow it added up. Not the math, of course, but the feeling. They were people, but also a bit more than simply that. The way the boss had carved through a demon with her teeth in her own mind was proof of that, to him. And it had made her all the more revered by the goblins of the Fifteenth. After all, it was a fresh and new brand of madness that the Boss was displaying, and not even the old Tyrants nor the Matrons had dared to take a bite off a demon. Yet the Boss did, and she had come out almost unscathed - which was about the same as entirely intact, in the eyes of anyone who knew what demons could do. Oh, he was so going to make a song about it, once the battle was over. Nauk would help him. Or not. 

The twang of a crossbow snapped him out of his reverie.

The bolt took the devil in the eye and it screamed. This wasn’t one of the smaller ones so a good shot would do little more than tickle it, unfortunately. The beast looked like the particularly dumb offspring of a bull and gazelle, if both of those creatures had been morbidly obese. All in all, it was the size of a supply wagon and seemed intent on acting like a living battering ram.

“You really let yourself go, buddy,” Robber informed it, “you should be ashamed of yourself.”

He scuttled off inside the nearest house as another crossbow volley picked off a pair of the iron-hooked devils: he’d earlier thought that taking one of the ugly bastards in the head would kill them, but when the first volley had failed to make a single kill he’d been roughly disabused of the notion. Fill them with enough bolts, though, and they stopped moving. The horned devil bellowed and charged after him, ripping through the door he’d slammed shut behind him like it was made of wet clay. Cheerfully, the yellow-eyed tribune threw some poor soul’s good tea set at the thing and legged it towards the window, jumping through and landing in a roll on the street as the shutters came apart.

“Bring it down,” he ordered the two sappers awaiting.

The hammers fell with unseemly enthusiasm, breaking the keystones Pickler had marked and weakened a few days back: the house collapsed on top of the devil. It probably wasn’t dead yet, unfortunately, since the roof had been mere thatch. Robber casually lit a pinewood match as the other two sappers threw oil jugs on the rough location of the monster, setting the whole thing aflame without missing a beat.

“How’s the main street?” he asked.

“Demolition charges took one of the big fuckers out when it tried to pursue,” Lieutenant Rattler told him, wiping her hands clear of the oil.

Callowan-made, those jugs. Sloppy work. If they hadn’t confiscated them from local stocks he would have complained about the quality. He still would, of course, but he’d have done it _more_ if the Fifteenth had actually paid for them. There was the pop of a sharper detonating in the distance, the sound of an iron-hooked devil getting blown off a roof by his lovely minions. Goblins knew the passage of time more intimately than any human or orc could, and the tribune knew he’d been lingering where he stood too long. Already devils were honing in on his position, the dark failing to hide their silhouettes from his night vision.

“On to the next choke point,” he ordered, casting one last look at the burning wreck.

This little kip of theirs was the brain child of Pickler and the Hellhound: goblin engineering married to the steel trap that was their legate’s mind. Give ground one block after another, bleeding them dry all the way as they tore themselves to pieces going through the traps. Pickler’s love letter to the sapper corps, he liked to think of it.

And who was he to refuse such a heartfelt confession?

-

The thing that had once been John of Vale stalked forward, unmoved by the losses the devils were suffering. Only the ones by his side mattered, when it came down to it. The world had grown stranger, muddled by the remnants of ideas that weren't its own. _Morality_. It did not make sense to it. There was only power, power and will. And there was a lot of it gathered here. Around it, in front of it in the city, and far behind where its bindings were tied. It was going to have a _feast_ when the time would have come. Five sparks were burning in the city, beyond the maze of flame that made it instinctively retch; One had power akin to its own, and its mere existence was feeding another of the five. The third had the deepest flame of the five, colors interwoven with concepts it could barely apprehend but nonetheless dreamt of unravelling. The fourth burned bright, and was nowhere nearly as shallow as it let itself be felt as. It had the feeling of deep waters and its ember was steadily waxing. The last... It was hidden behind lies and mirrors, but it frightened the thing that had once been John. Its flame was hollow, heart carved out and replaced by a mockery of self-subsistence. It was a disgusting thing, and the fake demon felt deep empathy towards the thing that wanted to die.


	5. Interlude: Loom

" _Wherever my feet may lead me, there will be chains to break. Wherever my banner will fly, there will be free men under it._ "  
\- Amina Hayari, Taghreb warlord

* * *

Steel sang against stone, kindling a feeling of satisfaction in Hakram's mind. The sound of his sharpened blade was pure and true, meaning that the whetstone had properly ground the edge and did not bite into the inner layers of the axe's steel. Nowadays, there were precious few times where the Adjutant made his steel scream. He suspected that this uncanny unerringness of hand was a direct consequence of having come into a Name. His Warlord's motions were equally accurate, if blurrier in execution. The way Cathering always managed to bring her hands where she wanted while seemingly not even _aiming_ to reach what she wanted was an ever-renewed source of amazement for the orc. And now he was experiencing the same phenomenon. He made a mental note to ask the Warlock's get about it; maybe resonance in instinct was common about interlinked Names. 

Adjutant looked down the edges of his axe, casting an appreciating gaze upon the perfectly straight arcs of steel. The goblin smiths of Foramen were truly skilled at their craft; the layers of folded steel were so perfectly parallel that Hakram suspected he'd have to willingly screw up the grinding to actually manage to end up with a distorted edge. He nodded, and put the whetstone back in his satchel before rising from his bench and strapping his axe to his back. He had the feeling that the battle was about to begin in earnest. Robber's little band of malfeasant wretches would have engaged the enemy's vanguard by now, which meant that the first harpoon was already burrowed deep in the Fifteenth's foes' flank. The Hellhound had a plan, after all, and she'd had on her face that expression that was very much not a smile that it looked exactly like one, during the entire strategic meeting. Now for the second and the third strokes, and the enemy would be dragged bleeding and burning into the Fifteenth's maw and ground against every steely tooth in it. Juniper was Red Shields and the Knightsbane daughter's; Adjutant would not gainsay her insight when she was saying that all she needed to win was to let the battle unfold. She had proved it true before, he was confident she would emerge on top today as well.

As for the others... Ratface had a cohort helping him managing the civilians, Aisha was by Juniper's side as always, Nauk and Hune were on the frontlines, ready to take their stands as the Hellhound would demand. Of the two, the orc was the most eager to meet the enemy steel in hand; Nauk still felt like Nilin's death had left scales uneven, and if a few dozen dead devils and mercenaries could help settle the matter, Hakram was of the opinion to let him have his fill. The other orc would still have to watch for the Red Rage, but he'd sworn to Catherine that he would not lose himself so long as the enemy remained unbroken, and Hakram was confident that Nauk would hold his word. Hune was as always difficult to read, but she seemed to have expectations for the coming battle. Maybe a chance to prove her troops' efficience ? A matter of no import. The ogre was equally hard to please or displease, and Adjutant had the feeling that she'd be satisfied as long as the battle would be won without too grievous losses. 

Which left... Kilian. Hakram was confident here. The senior mage was skilled, and with the ritual being of Apprentice make, she would hold steady. Of course, the ritual having an opening in the form of the main street was a glaring weak point in their defensive array, but Pickler had seen to it. The last of her siege engines were deployed near the confines of the ritual's center and the surrounding streets had been turned into a deadly maze of wards by Masego. Any devil trying to wander past that point would feel something that the Warlock's son had described as "a searing sensation of internal pain and overwhelming external sensory deprivation - to take away the possibilities of escape - and then a consuming fire devouring them from the inside." That was the theory at least. Apprentice had added after a heartbeat that many practitioners went mad trying to coordinate their sensory responses with the devils they experimented upon, and that for safety reasons he'd refer to established warding patterns without linking himself to them. As gruesome as the trap might be, the idea of not tangling oneself with a potentially backfiring magical array was sound to Hakram's mind, and he'd complimented Masego for his thoroughness.

Now Adjutant was wandering the streets, his feet leading him to the rooftop where his warlord was waiting, alongside with the Archer and the Apprentice. As softly and as silently as flowing water, he slid himself to Catherine's side, and found that the four of them, Named as they were, had a certain gait when standing together like this. Catherine's gaze, fixated upon a faraway victory; Archer's own eyes staring towards an even further removed horizon; Apprentice's deep stare, aimed at things he alone could see or comprehend. And there was himself, carefully scrutinizing the path ahead so that Cat may tread without tripping wherever she wanted to go. It was thus with utmost attention that Hakram stared as his warlord flung the silver flask she had in hand back to its rightful owner, who was leaning against the chimney in a lazy sprawl. She - without even noticing, he thought - put her hand on the hilt of her sword, which Hakram was sure she did not have the day before, and called out the newcomer with a quiescent drawl that slithered beneath his skin and made him shiver, imperceptibly. The words were spoken in lower Miezan, but the accentuation was definitely taken from Kharsum, and the tone was one of tranquil threat.

"So... Now that I've tasted your horrid stuff and learned that there is worse than _aragh_ in Creation, care to explain why you're here, Almorava ?"

-

It had been the dark of night when the Wandering Bard woke up. Almorava had not slept like this in ages. She'd have slept more, but the story was pulling at her strings, threatening to make her fray at the seams even though her shell was definitely seamless. Gods, did she hate paradoxes. And so Almorava had quietly tucked her flask in her belt and picked up her lute, before leaving the tent she was sleeping in. The rebels' camp was well-organized enough that even with the tiredness of her mortal coil she had managed to find her way out - would have, if she had not met William on the way out. He was sitting there on a stone at midnight bell, grinding down a whetstone against the Penitent's Blade. He knew, she knew, even the golden rotisserie gallery knew it was pointless, that the stone would be dust before the blade was thinned, but he did it out of habit. She didn't stop him from doing it; as far as Named mania went, this was one of the mildest she'd seen. As always, he was tall, dark and brooding. Must've heard the sound of her footsteps, the Bard mused as the Lone Swordsman raised his face towards her.

"Finding yourself filled with wanderlust at midnight ? Shame on you, Almorava. After all you've drunk yesterday, you should be knocked out cold on your couch. I'm impressed, I gotta say. I had never seen a duke of Liesse flustered like that before when you drank all his closest retainers under the table."

The words were mild and playful, but they both knew better. He trusted her fully, and thus got chatty whenever the both of them were alone together. Unconsciously, he was putting on her the role of kin. 

"Could be another kind of lust, if only you cared to get out of your pants", she answered with a slurred drawl. "Night's still young, fun's there to be had."

He sputtered, and the used whetstone slipped out of his hand; he replied with a croak.

"Heavens forbid. I'm dying a virgin, and you can't do anything about it. Atonement never ends, but it begins with the absence of pleasure."

_Contrition_ , she thought, equally fondly and uncharitably. Those poor fools were so _principled_ , they never were shallow of character like other choir-sworn heroes could be, but hells knew that they could get too dedicated at times. Living a full life was not mutually exclusive with repenting for one's sins, even if the Hashmallim said the opposite. As she thought so, she felt the slight pressure of their mild displeasure upon the back of her mind, and she pushed back. William staggered, as if he'd been a puppet whose strings were tied to swords stabbed in his flesh. 

"The Choir isn't really agreeing with my philosophy of life", Almorava said in a falsely contrite voice. She gave William a pat on the shoulder, picking the fallen whetstone off the ground and giving it back to him.

"Don't worry for me, Will. I'll be back soon. But right now... I can see a lovely story forming on the horizon, and I want to be there to see it. Just don't go around killing the nobles because they get pissy, alright ?"

It was the most motherly a voice she could muster, which meant it sounded more step-sisterly than anything. The Wandering Bard wasn't one for family, after all. The Swordsman stared at her with an undefinable expression.

"One day," he said very seriously, "I'll want to hear how the hells you do that. It's got to make for a long and interesting story."

"Sure will", Almorava replied cheerfully. She took her flask out of her belt and downed a shot, before wobbling her arm more or less towards William. "Want some ?"

"No thank you", the Swordsman said. "I do not have a cast-iron liver like you do, Almorava. Your... whatever it is in there would kill me in three gulps, I'm sure."

"Eh, fairly sure it's Vale summe- nevermind it's Ankouan radish liquor. How the fuck did I manage to get my hands on that ?"

He chuckled. "A mystery for the ages. Alright, go and wander off. That's what you do. In the meanwhile, I'll sit here awaiting you, brooding while grinding my whetstone to dust until you return."

"Sounds like a plan", she laughed and walked away, out of the camp. 

-

The Wandering Bard eyed the girl who until last night was the Squire, and snatched her flask out of thin air, before replying with a cheerful laugh.

"Oh girl... It's obvious, isn't it ? The enemy host stands before you, defenders of the city, the last line between death or worse and the frightened civilians. The devilish host approaches, but its leaders are nowhere to be seen. They will come out numbering five, for the final onslaught, and you'll be meeting them on the field. But Named going by four tend to fall like flies. So I thought, "Hey Almorava, there's this Callowan slip of a girl who just transitioned into a new name by means that even I can't see, and her story's just begun, so why not lend a hand ?", and here I am."

Catherine Foundling's eyes narrowed, staring not at the Bard but at the edge of the town. And then she smiled, and her voice came out like the sweetest poisoned honey.

"Oughta be a fun scrap, at least."


	6. Crucible

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had no idea what to do for this one, so I went for a random perspective. Enjoy.

" _A sword is only really tempered by being bathed in blood._ "  
\- King Edmund of Callow, the Inkhand

* * *

The world shone red to _I-me_. Every step I took with claws raking at the surface of the patterns saw everything around _I-me_ grow crimson in colour and heavy in taste and smell. Blood and battle beckoned as _I-She_ unsheathed the sword. It felt right to fight the abomination born of a monster's death throes with the reward _I-me_ had earned through subsuming the very same monster. The sword... Ah, it felt like power and bloodshed, even though it was nowhere strange safe for maybe its colour. But that was _I-Her_ perception of things, of course; for _I-me_ it was just another limb, made of story in the shape of steel and ichor and chitin instead of flesh and fur and bone. _I-me_ was eager to see how _I-She_ would use it, in truth. And so _I-me_ watched as the threads came to a head, interwoven without an outcome yet. 

It would be a fascinating battle. Five of us, including the faceless abomination, against five of them. As it should be, I-us thought gruffly. The pattern was right. Five, taking a stand defending the innocent. Five, monsters, assaulting the only turning point. We even had a singer on our side, even if it sadly was this empty old horror, which essentially ensued a victory against the five of them, but it also meant that _I-us_ as the leader would have to battle two of them. _I-us_ snarled, and it even was somewhat of a smile, because _I-us_ knew _I-we_ could do it. _I-me_ had become greater through _my-our_ last battle, and _I-me_ knew _I-She_ would call upon the new powers gained from eating away at the monster's corpse. Oh, _I-us_ was shivering in anticipation. The lay of the battle was truly perfect for a story to be made of it. _I-us_ as the tip of the spear, armoured and hungry and spry like a fawn in spring, ready to hunt and ready to kill. _It-friend_ , born already but yet unshaped, its ember stoked in the orc's body, grounded in reality and steady a warrior where _I-She_ was lacking in that domain. Almost like a sibling, made to complete _I-us_. It would gain the first of its shapes today, we-me-it felt it. All that was lacking was the principle, but was a battle not an ever-spinning crucible of those ? The third was like thunder and like flame, Gifted as it was. Transitory as well, but not lacking in power in the slightest. Architect, also, of the magnificent working that had been laid over the city; _I-we_ had beheld it and it was like a roiling tide of warmth stalling Hell's ever-grasping grubby little paws. Twenty-four hearths, two dozen hearts beating in unison to keep the tide flowing. And at the center, a gap that led into _I-our_ steely maw. The fourth was stranger, light and serene and also deep and unsettled. Was that a score to even that _I-me_ felt ? It seemed like the human It was had asked of _I-She_ that one of the five be especially put down. _I-we_ would. This was a battle without quarter.

And then came the fifth, and _my_ hackles were raised. _I-She_ could not feel it, but the impression that this _abhorrence_ gave me... It was like a slow pulse filled to the brim with stories too ancient to have been told by writ, ebbing with salvation to flow with damnation, pushing at people's and peoples' seams to weave a tapestry of torment and delight _and the sheer scope of its arrogance was maddening;_ all _I-me_ could see were colours constantly shifting around it while the world remained the same, and there was only one truth at the heart of it, a silhouette in the shape of man as if drawn by chalk, that did not move but flashed with every beat of its abominable heart, stalking in _my-our_ thoughts like a subliminal image, imprinting an old fear in _my-our_ memories. It was discordant as well, perfectly synchronized with the cradles from which all of _us-it_ came, but so out of tune with Creation that its beat was jarring. It was terrifying _I-me_ , and even _I-me_ was not relieved that it was on our side for this once. Some monsters were best left slumbering, and this one would require a great deal of murdering before it was laid to its final sleep.

Fortunately, murder was _my-our_ specialty, much as _I-she_ was adamantly denying it. Not that it would ever be taken as anything else than denial by anyone, _I-me_ mused amusedly. Punching a sharper into an ogre's balls then a devil the size of a bastion to smithereens might have done something towards that end. The demon had only been the final nail in the proverbial coffin. No one ever came out unscathed of a fight with one of those meddlesome motherfuckers, yet _I-we_ had succeeded. _I-She_ had suffered quite a lot during the ordeal, and _I-me_ had taken a beating from that damnable butterfly, but in the end _I-we_ had prevailed and come out stronger for it. It was the way, with the cradle beneath. There was no blessing save that of the amusement of the caretakers. They found _I-us_ amusing, and thus had allowed _I-us_ to live and progress. That, and burning, bitter struggle on _my-her_ part. That was what _I-She_ did, really. Go against the odds and somehow succeed. Because, after all, to _I-her_ fate and chance were just some of the enemies _I-She_ had to defeat to mould the world as _I-She_ wished. And _I-we_ would not be denied, be they Gods or kings or all the armies in Creation. _I-me_ bared my fangs. Creation and beyond.

Today we were going to cow the Hells.

It was a truth of ours, and _I-we_ grinned like broken, mad things. _I-she_ called upon _I-me_ , and it felt like a gentle stroking of my fur. The deepest layer of _my-her_ soul that _I-me_ embodied stirred and filled her being whole, instincts adding up as _I-we_ witnessed the world through the story's eyes as well as _my-hers_.

* * *

"Gonna be a tough dance," I told Archer as I felt my Name rise up after I'd called on it.

Reaction as normal. Good. Archer had asked me to thoroughly destroy the fake demon-Named thingie that Hunter had become, and I'd accepted, of course. Even a jackass like him didn't deserve to be turned into a meat puppet for an eldritch abomination from beyond Creation. The only problem was, the fucker looked like he was going to be a pain and a half to put down, or maybe two whole pains. The rest of the greater devils weren't any better, to be honest. And I was going to have to take on both demon-Hunter and one of them.

Out of the four, it was Masego who would have the easiest fight. Apprentice had told me that one of the devils was a practitioner, but only a middling one at best. He'd even indicated it to me, and seeing it, I had no problem believing that. The damned thing was tall as a tree and looking like an ox-headed man with skin like dripping metal and veined with sickening smokelike yellow veins. It honestly seemed to be more of a brawler than a mage, and if the way it was stomping at the bit while demon-Hunter approached, it certainly behaved like one as well. Well, if it didn't have the ability to attack at range, Masego would make short work of it, so long as he didn't get cocky. Not that I had much worries about it; he'd expressly mentioned that he had no interest in showing off to a devil, except maybe in speed of dispatchment.

Archer's enemy was staying in the back, a silhouette like a centipede, every segment of the spiny thing covered in labyrinth-like patterns. It had four chitinous protrusions near the back of its head, waving left and right and spitting a sort of acid that glassed anything it touched in unfathomable shapes that somehow resembled squares and triangles at the same time. That one was not going to be a shootout, despite the appearances. The opposition was too dangerous to risk being hit. No, Archer would have to close in fast to carve it up. Which is where Hakram came in.

Adjutant's enemy was looking the slippery kind, rail-thin, muscled and with two sets of wings, armored in what seemed to be silvery smoke and wielding a greataxe of the same material. Well, that'd be blooding enough for Hakram, I hoped, and not too much that it'd actually wound him badly. He was confident in his ability to take the thing on, which meant he was probably going to get an aspect along the way. Given how trying to nudge my aspect forth had gone for me, I could only approve of him wanting to get his own through the normal means.

Which left the last two, who'd be for me as the Wandering Bard was of course entirely useless in battle, as she had mentioned herself. Hunter himself had become a misshapen thing, irregular scales growing out of his skin at random places, his cut off hand replaced by twin spikes of fleshy green demon matter. His eyes had been hollowed out and replaced by hollow pits rimmed with dim green light, and his skin looked like it was falling apart like dry paint. His spear looked nothing out of the ordinary, though, which was probably a relief. If it had been an enchanted item, turning corrupted would have had consequences for the one who'd have to fight the thing. Namely, me. The biggest part of the problem remained, however. The body was dead and so was the demonic essence inside, but somehow I still felt the name pulsing deep within Hunter's corrupted corpse. Well, at least I would not have to take on the two of them at the same time. 

The Forlorn Hope deployed behind me, a formation of grim-faced deserters given a second chance. They all understood, in this moment, what it meant to have lost their right to live to me. I was going to spend them against the fifth devil, so that we could deal with the four others in the meanwhile. They did not question it. Their Lieutenant approached me, and I could see a golden noose painted on the face of his shield; an instant later, I noticed every last one of them had it. He caught me staring, and a mirthless smile bloomed on his lips.

“Our company sign, Lady Squire,” he said.

I frowned. “Name?”

“Lieutenant Farrier,” he replied.

“And what does it mean, lieutenant?” I asked.

I wasn’t smiling, and that was enough to make the dark-haired man wary. Blue-eyed and not much taller than me, he looked like the very picture of what I’d always been told the average Callowan was. I wondered what he’d done, to end up in the Fifteenth. Nothing nice, I imagined. _Lesser criminals don’t get to avoid death row by enrolling._

“Twice now, we avoided the hangman’s drop,” Lieutenant Farrier told me soberly. “The men decided we could use a reminder there won’t be a third.”

Laudably clear-thinking of them. As far as I was concerned, the formation of this company was the last chance they would get. Anything more would be detrimental to discipline and to be frank I’d run out of both excuses and willingness to keep them alive. I wasn’t as patient or forgiving as I’d used to be. Whether that was a good thing or bad one remained to be seen.

“Not a bad sign, for a Forlorn Hope,” I conceded.

He smiled, obviously relived.

“Gallowborne, we call ourselves,” the dark-haired man admitted drily. “Born of the gallows and headed for them again, should we falter.”

Callowan to the end, huh. That might be what I wanted for this battle, I thought. Centuries of spite and stubbornness made into a sword and a shield to break my enemies. I kept silent, however.

Farrier hesitated.

“And I don’t know about living until tomorrow, but tonight? I like what this stands for,” he admitted, lightly tapping the fifteen in Miezan numerals on his shoulder.

A thunderous detonation was heard as Masego and the mage-devil exchanged their first spells, a blast of heat running across the plaza like wasteland wind.

“Here they come,” I said.

There was a bark of laughter from someone in the ranks.

“Again, huh?”

Grim laughter spread through the deserters.

“The knights will get the glory,” someone sang.

“The king will keep his throne,” more replied.

I knew the song. Every Callowan did, though the days where it was sung in the open were long gone. If the Kingdom had ever had an anthem, this was it.

“We won’t be in the story

Our names will not be known,” I joined in.

A hundred voices chorused, deep and thin and with accents from all over the land.

“So pick up your sword, boy

Here they come again

And down here in the mud,

It’s us who holds the line.”

Almorava started playing. I felt it the moment the scene shivered with the feeling of just _being right_ , as it should be, should unfold. A hard smile stretched my lips.

“The Princes take the Vales

The Tyrant is at the Gate

Our crops whither and fail,

The enemy’s host is great.”

Oh, this wasn’t the first time devils tread Callowan soil. Our hatred for their kind was an old one, lovingly tended to over centuries of eastern armies bringing fire and brimstone to bear on our walls.

“So pick up your sword, boy

Here they come again

And down here in the mud,

It’s us who holds the line.”

The voices rang out defiantly into the night and I felt something well up in my breast, an old sentimentality I’d thought I’d left behind me. Pride in where I was from. Pride in what it meant to be Callowan, when all the surface trappings were stripped away.

“Man the walls, bare the steel,” we sang.

“Hoist the banner, raise the shield

A free man’s death they cannot steal

 _When we meet them on the field_.”

The devils charged, stalking through fire and smoke. The monsters had finally had enough, and with screams of twisted glee they charged.

“So pick up your sword, boy,

Here they come again

And down here in the mud,

IT’S US WHO HOLDS THE LINE!”

It echoed across the battlefield as the Wandering Bard matched our singing, and it was nowhere as strident as I had first heard it. Today, she was playing for real, and the notes that came out filled the atmosphere with a sort of power that belonged to legend. Time to make that story known to even the hosts of Hell, I thought as I raised my shield to welcome the enemy's first strike.


	7. Comparison

"..."  
\- Thule Alhadi, the Quiet Shade

* * *

Apprentice was confident that he would be victorious. 

While his opponent was a greater devil, this particular breed was well-documented since the second Licerian War, as the mage cabals from the southern Miezan provinces had made widespread usage of it in the role of magical siege weaponry, and their successors during the conquest of Praes had emulated them when warring in the Steppes. On one hand, the ensuing loss of culture at the hands of the invaders had been a crippling blow to the orc magical traditions, but on the other several well-maintained records of the devils' abilities were kept in publicly-accessible libraries in Ater, and Papa had given him the book to read when he was teaching him about bindings.

Thus, even though the _asteriothere_ was charging at him, Masego was taking the time to study his opponent in depth. The Labyrinth Beast certainly was not lacking in physical prowess, but every important attribute for a spellcaster was askew. Here in Creation, the devil only had a shallow pool to draw on, and Apprentice was not sure it could even process the most basic of spell formulas. Which led to another point - it was undeniably Gifted, but _how_ exactly did it use its magic ? Perhaps did it not have the ability to cast magic proper, only to use it as fuel for other internal abilities. It would be unique, as far as Apprentice knew, but also quite disappointing; such a phenomenon was unlikely to be reproducible with a living being due to fundamental differences in essence. Or maybe not. Aksumite mages had managed to interbreed with devils in the past, despite the lack of genetics within hellspawn. There was an axis of study worth investigating here, he thought.

A resounding blow upon the barrier he had set up brought him back to the reality of battle, and he slightly blushed, noticing that over half the energy he had put in the warding had been dispersed with that attack. The asteriothere was readying another punch, Masego saw, and it would most likely shatter the shield entirely, leaving him without a window of opportunity to respond before the killing stroke. Apprentice poured his power into the ward, restoring it anew, and met the devil's heinous stare with a focused glare of his own.

"Ah, my apologies. I should not tarry in disposing of you. You are only of passing interest to my research."

Albeit entirely honest, the reply did not seem to appease the asteriothere in the slightest. Quite the opposite in fact, Apprentice noted with a tinge of dismay. Had he been impolite ? He'd ask Catherine later, waving the matter away as the devil's arms started glowing, suffused with that sulphur-coloured light that emanated from the veins running across its body. The entire right arm, which like the rest of the body seemed to be made of poorly-molten metal began to drip and simmer, reshaping itself into a bludgeon. Simultaneously, patterns across the metallic skin of the forearm began glowing, following the ridges and crevices of the tissue but still forming coherent characters. Apprentice frowned; he recognized some of those, but they were... antiquated.

He burst out with a scowl, disbelieving.

"Petronian sorcery ? How archaic !"

As the bludgeon began hammering at his shield and power was drained from him at an alarming rate, he corrected himself, if only mentally.

_Archaic, but efficient. A draining property, maybe ?_

Just in case, he poured magic in the ground beneath his feet, raising a barrier made of purely physical material, and brought down his ward. As if to match his thoughts, the devil's next attack struck with a resounding clang, denting the reshaped dirt but not piercing through.

"Ah. I see."

_Endlessly mutable property attribution within the boundaries of Petronian sorcery, but at the cost of being affected by its restrictions._

Peering with his glasses through the wall he'd just made, he noticed that once again the devil had reshaped his arm, this time into a three-headed tool that he did not recognize. The tool's purpose was however soon made apparent when sorcery sparked between the three spikes and the devil started swinging at his wall with the tip of his arm, drawing lines of sulphur through the dirt. The strikes were not truly aimed, Masego understood, but only stacked in order to weaken the structure enough for a following blow to destroy it. But...

"You committed a mistake," Apprentice said in a scolding tone.

He then followed with an incantation in Mtethwa, anchoring a net of dispersive enchantments on the tips of the lines the devil had carved in the wall.

"Though our madness reaches the Heavens, the black stone of our grandiose works is borne from the depths of the earth. By the unholy architectures, **scatter** " he chanted, the last word imbued with power at the exact moment the devil struck the center of the web of lines, shattering the hastily-raised wall of mud. Dry dirt was turned into fine powder from the impact, any protection between Apprentice and the asteriothere gone, and the devil smiled, as much as an ox-headed creature could.

But the lines remained, and as commanded they wrapped around the devil's arm, grafting themselves in the flesh. And as commanded, magic was scattered. His right arm turned into useless sludge, the asteriothere reeled back in pain and surprise, taking a few steps back and eyeing Masego with fury greater than before.

"This battle is over", the soninke noted clinically. "You should have tried to overwhelm me through numerous hits instead of amassing power for a decisive blow. Now you are deprived of half your combat ability, and at my mercy."

Tracing symmetrical runes in the air in front of him, Apprentice approached the devil, who was cradling his right shoulder with his left hand. He twisted the runes, and the ground beneath the devil gave and began to whirl, creating a pit under the devil's feet. The runes glowed blue, and the dirt that was being removed of the pit scattered into dust and was reshaped into chains by Apprentice's will, stabbing into the devil's limbs and nailing him at the bottom of the pit. The devil looked up, and Masego met its gaze. He knew it was never a good idea to lock eyes with a devil, but this specimen did not mark him as particularly dangerous in that regard.

A sphere of fire blossomed in Masego's palm, growing into a fiery, roiling spike.

"I wish the circumstances were different. I apologize for not evaluating your abilities any further; I must say, however... thank you for the insights you provided me."

The lance of fire flew into the pit, and for a brief second it was like a kiln. The flame gutted out, and the hole revealed itself empty.

It was only then that Apprentice took notice of the song.

* * *

Almorava of Symra sang of lament, of a labyrinth made world, of a Hell of bulls and war, of endless mazes of carved stone serving as battlefields for hordes of devils. She sang of the sixteen that were summoned by Caraius during the Licerian Wars, and of them of the ten that fell when Caracisson burned, of the two that drowned when the Yan Tei assaulted the ship carrying them, of the four that made it to Calernia, only to be bound to Triumphant's will. One had been slain by the White Knight, sliced in half from head to toe. One was dispersed when the Tower was brought down, impaled on a stake of obsidian. The third ended devoured by beasts of the Brocelian, and today the last of the four, the last of the sixteen, had finally met its end. 

Almorava sang of endings and of brothers joined together in death. She wailed for the ever ill-fated asteriotheroi, and she grieved for the last of the ancient beasts at long last being felled. She also sang of beginnings, of a rising star of magic who had vanquished an elder monster, an apprentice who would soon surpass his forbears and delve deeper in the abyss of power than anyone ever had before.

It was a song for the Apprentice.


	8. Ingress

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back.

_"Fear not, for I am here"  
_ \- Yates Torright, Callowan White Knight under the Alban Dynasty

* * *

Gods everblasting was it disturbing to look at. Of course, Archer picked the short straw when it came to the devils they had to fight. Well, everyone except Foundling, apparently. Cute little Apprentice had been pitted against a thing she'd only read in old stories and seemed more of a fit for sturdy steel like the Adjutant's. Who incidently found himself against a slinking bastard hell-bat-... thing with more claws than common sense. Still, she could see why Foundling had made that choice. Apprentice's fight was likely to be a context of force but on the magical side of things - which with the exception of a few individuals, devils were notoriously bad at outside of amplifying others - and Adjutant was tasked with containing the most mobile opponent with his sheer bulk. 

But why had she gotten herself stuck with the centipede ? Hide's too tough, can't snipe it, and the knives would barely do better; aside from its solidity, the devil was busy rampaging across the tow- no. Archer's eyes darted left and right, following the movements of the beast. Not enough. She felt the pull, an idea coming through but slightly beyond reach, tugging at the back of her eyes like an itch on a metaphorical scratch. Ah. Foundling had good instincts, it seemed. For a split second, it felt like walking a rope above a dark pit in the dead of night. Then Archer felt like tugging the rope, and the pulse allowed her to **See** what was hidden. Stretching, instantly, flashing like a thunderbolt. Colours growing vivid, hues growing distinct. Shapes becoming more acute, motions clearer. It felt like clear water rinsing her pupils, fresh and cold and liberating. The aspect pulled her gaze to the trail of broken houses the gargantuan devil was leaving in its wake. Back and forth in a... 

Oh.

Hearths. _The beast never approached the magical cores of the ritual._  
Boundaries. _It was constrained by Apprentice's ritual, but the area within its motion span was blurred._  
Glass. _Whitening Creation to thin the frontier between it and reflection._  
Patterns. _A circle for imprisonment, a wake of translucence and depth in the colours._  
Seclusion. _Cutting off the prey's escape means, the same predatory behavior as the Waning Woods' hunter insects._  
Edge. _Sharp fangs and pulsing steps, a regular motion hidden by destruction._  
Disruption. _Meaning hidden in meaninglessness, truth in falsehood and change in stillness induced._

_Oh._

Understanding came like a cold shower, and in the same motion her legs sprang forth to make her dash from the rooftop she was standing on, while her arms unsheathed the knives she wore on her belt. Archer had seen through the enemy. Now she had to put an end to the scheme. Well. That was easier said than done, but if she'd given up on anything harder than it seemed, she wouldn't have gotten anywhere in life. Fearsome as it was, the devil would just be another beast in her path. Beasts could be felled. She was no Hunter, no Beastmaster, but she was the Archer. Anything she could see was a thing she could kill. The devil wanted to fold Creation around into the Hell it came from ? She'd discover how many times she could fold its intestines around her knives before the edge bit in. Wait, did centipedes even have intestines ? Eh, she'd check that out. What a wonderful day for science. A spot of murder, followed by more murder and Apprentice getting crabby because he wouldn't be able to study the devil's effects due to its dissipation. True perfection.

As she landed in front of the monstrous centipede, it seemed that the beast wasn't agreeing with her idea of perfection, judging by the screech it suddenly let out. Now that she was up close, she could see the wonder that was its carapace. From afar it seemed to be purely black with a dim shine to it, but after closing in, the patterns in the chitin revealed themselves. Thousands upon thousands of imbricated squares, giving off an oily rainbow gleam like those metallic crystals the dwarves sometimes peddled in Refuge. A massive triangular head pointing towards her like an arrow, long and thin and with a piercing gaze; eyes like burning embers, deep and blood-red and pulsating slowly. She counted the seconds. Two. Three. Five. Eight. She blinked. Two. Three. Fi-

"Whoops"

She ducked to avoid a swipe from its tail, darting towards the side of the street and probing the weak points of the carapace. Sadly, her blades didn't bite. But... The sound had been strange. It hadn't been steel against stone, or even steel against metal as she had expected. It was more raw than that. Not crude... but more primal. As if it had been... no, not alive, but as if the shell had perceived her attack. 

A deafening shriek jostled her out of her thoughts, and she saw the devil rearing up, preparing to exhale Something Nasty. Uh-Oh. She scaled up the nearest house, jumping over the rooftop to the next. On the moment the creature unleashed its spit, she put all her strength into her legs and leaped across in one bound. Spinning around on her toes, the sight of the fate she'd narrowly escaped caught her breath in her throat. A row of at least twelve, if not fifteen or more houses had been penetrated by the devil's attack, the sheer force behind the breath shattering the stone and wood and projecting debris up in a surge that then froze half-way through like a waterfall in winter. Except it was all glass, white and grey and brown all over. There was no trace left of the houses' shape in the street, only the materials they were made of, dismantled and spread across a blast of transmuted energy. Something _Very_ Nasty, she reclassified in her mind.

No more time for fucking around, then. People already had a hard enough time explaining one glass house, she'd have no way to justify an entire boulevard of broken ones.

The devil turned around, angling its pointy head towards her. The chill pulled in, and she jumped down, running towards the centipede. Archer had no intention of letting herself be caught in that attack, if the thing decided to start blasting it left and right to get rid of her. Thankfully, that sort of attack was most of the time unusable up close. She estimated the distance, gazing up then down as she went. Thirty feet. 

_Beat._

Two seconds. It was no longer loading its attack, rather coiling up to shorten itself, lowering its head towards ground level. Twenty feet. Archer kept running forward.

_Beat._

One second. The beast unfurled itself towards her, a pair of black scythe-shaped fangs protruding from a seething maw hurling towards her at incredible speed. Archer dug her heels in and threw herself down backwards.

It was a terrifying sight, she thought as the massive centipede's body zipped past above her body with a teeth-rattling windshear. Thousand upon thousand of black crystalline scales that could feel, and a malevolent intelligence Hell-bent - heh - on killing her. Like an accordion played but every note sounded like death. Or a goblin rewrite of the Lay of Lothian's Passing. _Now_ that was something to give the chills.

The devil's body thrust upon itself, curling up like a ribbon as it smashed into a house and rolled over, ending up in a moon shape with the exterior of its shell on the ground. Archer breathed out and stood up, flicking her knives into an icepick grip. It took her a long time to get her arms to stop shaking. Still a long way to go, huh... 

She knelt next to the devil's head, patting the soft area beneath its jaw as the beast struggled to turn itself around. 

"I won't lie, I ain't been scared of something so much since that poison-breathing wyvern. But... Thank you, I guess. I wouldn't have had the chance to fight something like you in a lifetime if I went to look for it."

Down went the knives and still went the corpse.

It was only then that Archer heard the melody.

* * *

Almorava of Symra sang of rhythms, of a world of shells and empty numbers, of cyphers woven into flesh and meaning hidden in the patterns of the caves where the devils dwelled. She sang for the little ones who fed on ash and dust of porphyry, of the newborns treading dark grounds with a hundred stuttering steps. She sang for those who never saw the light of the sun and for the one who'd witnessed it and found that it shone nicely upon its back. 

Almorava sang of paths left to tread and trails left to blaze, of sharp but brittle blades and the softness of flesh and the toughness of bone. It was a visceral song, and she scraped her throat raw. There was harmony in that song, but the rhythm was greater. Quizzical and strong, dashing across the score to deliver a final burning note, the song of a pupil who was a master and yet had so much left to learn.

It was a song for the Archer.


	9. Stability

_“Be not as water or wind, for they are both broken by the cliff. Be not as fire for it is smothered by the common dirt. Be as stone, unmoving and unyielding, and all who oppose you will break themselves as they try to break you.”_  
\- Helikean court mage Ansios the Ill-Advised, shortly before turning himself into a statue.

* * *

_Calm and steady._

Adjutant quietly adjusted his stance, bringing up his shield so that his opponent’s claws would rake against the steel instead of piercing through his throat. The instant of tension was short-lived as Hakram pushed back to repel the ancient devil; he did not want to start a tug-of-war that he could not win on account of having fewer limbs to move around. Still, the ragged old thing was strong, and so Hakram was the one who had to step back. This time he lowered his scutum, having foreseen the tail swipe coming to slash his ankles. He’d nearly fallen victim to it once already. This devil was proving to be a troublesome opponent.

He probed with the tip of his sword, searching for weaknesses, but the thing staggered like a tugged rope, avoiding the attack entirely. Adjutant ground his teeth. What an annoying foe. To make things even more frustrating, there wasn’t even that much strength in the limbs that had been striking at him until now – save for the tail, maybe.

Obviously, just as the thought sprang into his mind, the beast screeched and launched a flurry of blows with more strength than before. Adjutant grunted. A few of the attacks had made it through, scratching him on the legs and the arms. By precaution, he flushed poison out of his system, even though he’d been doing it repeatedly since the fight had begun and there had been no trace of such substance in the devil’s attacks. But it was not paranoia.

Hakram was no Levantine, to know the beasts of Brocelian, nor was he Archer who had walked the twisty woodways of the Waning Woods. However, he had studied the ways of the Dread Empire, and Praesi were fond of their beasts of war – most of which were made through sorcery, by changing beings that already existed. In the tomes he’d perused at the War College and in some that Lord Black had given to him knowing that Catherine would not be interested in them, he’d read the prose of mages who had learned the ways of life, and their insights – while obviously gut-churning – had been highly educating.

The thing before him was no such war-beast, but it bore similarities. Long, spindly limbs, a muscular but nigh-skinny body, three eyes that granted it a wider field of vision; the devil was optimized towards hunting. Hunting only, though. Not feeding. The way it moved and attacked, its offensive patterns and jerky motions when repelled, everything indicated that this devil was a killer thing. An assassin, made to deliver a crippling blow followed by a finisher. But its blows were weak, too weak. There was a trick, and Adjutant believed it to be poison.

Still, Hakram felt unsuited for this opponent. Oh, he’d grasped Catherine’s intent from the onset. She wanted him to hinder the devil’s supposed – and then proved – high mobility with his stature and strong attacks. Instead he’d found himself facing a thing that could rival him in sheer strength, and while he could indeed prevent it from dashing around and killing legionaries, he also had no way to win against it. Needless to say, if he tried to make this battle one of endurance, even as a Named he would lose against a devil, whose stamina was limitless.

This felt very much like a deadlock, and Hakram did not appreciate that feeling.

Once more forced to step back – three steps this time – under the devil’s onslaught, Adjutant tried to find a way to push instead of being pushed. Waiting for a lapse in the harrying, he thrust his shield edgewise and upwards, hitting the devil square in its spindly torso and sending it flying back in a pleasing arc into a pile of rubble. Adjutant grunted with satisfaction. That had been a good hit.

He calmly adjusted his footwork as he went forward with the intention of finishing it off. Step after step. He could already see the motions, his sword going down and severing the devil’s head from its body in one clean stroke. Still, the old thing was not yet dead, and so caution was to be kept.

The devil screeched and rose back to its feet. Hakram saw that its jaw had been dislocated in the fall, but the mandible snapped back in place and the monster let out another screech. This one sent a chill in the orc’s spine. Low and guttural and wyvern-like, it had been a terrifying sound. No, a terrifying word. As antiquated and horribly accented as it had been, this was Kharsum.

Kill, the beast had said. It was a rumbling noise like a dragon’s claws raking against stone, and also pure and clear of intent. Kill. The beast hunched forward, slinking into a more predatory stance. Then its skin sagged and rippled; dark blue and scalelike and mottled, seeing it waver in such a fashion nearly upturned Hakram’s stomach. Then it tightened, and so did Hakram’s throat.

The devil screeched again. Kill, it said once more. Now, Adjutant fully believed it capable of achieving that objective. Its legs, bat-like, now showed defined muscles that he knew had incredible strength, and the claws at the end of the foot were no longer sheathed in flabby layers of skin. Its four arms were now chiseled like some sort of Soninke sculpture, similar in shape to the great bone-dart swordfishes that lived off the coast of the steppes, formed like tubes and containing a powerful singular claw that it could thrust forth at ludicrous speed. Its head was an even more frightening sight, two green slitted eyes staring at him with unabated hatred and bloodlust, the skin so tight around the jaw that it was drawn back enough to show black gums around white crooked teeth, seething with viscous saliva. Hakram was standing fifteen feet away from it, and yet he could hear the thing’s raspy breath, huffing and sucking as if through a particularly vicious grate.

Adjutant scraped the edge of his sword against that of his shield, thinking of what to say in his last moments, but only voiceless notes came to his mind. One that all orc children knew, the mournful song of the dead that had been sung once too many times and once again. Another, one that evoked ancient history, the glory of the hordes of yore, words cherished but since long deprived of meaning. And one that his father had taught him, when he had talked about his dreams. A song that dreamt too, of a land beyond dusk and darkness, and the path to reach it.

It seemed like a perfect fit, for if the sun of his life was about to set, Hakram the Adjutant would see what laid beyond.

Calm again, he steadied himself. His own breath was thin, but unwavering. The words came, rising to his mind through his bones, resonating now like they had when he’d first heard it. He stepped forward. He was Hakram of the Howling Wolves. If he was to go down, then the Gods would hear him sing even in the deepest of all Hells.

“ _There once was a time, in ages since long gone_  
_Where night was a realm that was conquered by none_  
_In there dwelt the silent and the souls of the lone_  
_We did not forget the quiet slayer that shone_  
_For the coldness of dusk sunk into the bone_ ”

The devil smiled, and so did Hakram. No longer would there be frustration or hesitation. Only the calm coldness of killers, the song that would take one of them beyond the sunset. The haunting melody filled the air, the notes falling into place in their minds as they began to dance, steel held by green and claw held by blue.

“ _I did not wander there, for I was not yet old_  
_I did not dare to tread, for I was not so bold_  
_When day went down, I sang my song untold_  
_And at the deepest hour, was submerged by the cold_  
_Then at dawn I witnessed the coming day unfold_ ”

Steel raked against the taut skin, the strength of the impact rattling the bones in Hakram’s arm. Still, it elicited a response from the devil, screeching as the tip of the blade had notched its torso, the sheer tension causing the gash to widen instantly. But Hakram was too slow, and a flash of red pain pierced through his right leg, causing him to grunt and lose his footing.

“ _Then age on me down weighed, making me think of yore_  
_Countless dunes that I tread and the burdens I bore_  
_I had become chieftain, no oath ever forswore_  
_But when dusk came calling, I reminisced before_  
_When I thought beyond reach the ever-distant shore_ ”

He’d hacked two of the damned thing’s arms, the lower row, but it still had two limbs and now his left arm was pierced as well. Adjutant was steadily losing balance – hah – but he felt a pull, something that forced him to clench his fingers tighter, and even though the pain was nearly unbearable, step forward with his damaged leg. He could see the motions already, his sword going up and piercing the devil’s heart. All that was left was to enact.

“ _I listened to the call, heeded the world’s command_  
_Dragged my old bark out there, brought it on the sand_  
_Yet I stood there and gazed, ‘pon the faraway land_  
_Knowing that in sinking, the flow would take my hand_  
_Yet it rang in my bones, this desire to **Stand**._”

Thus it rang out in the air, the ultimate denial that Adjutant forced upon the reality of Creation by sheer will as the devil was bearing down on him and had him down on the knee. With a harsh creaking sound, Hakram forced himself up and pushed the devil back. He knew that in this instant, not even the Gods themselves would not be able to make him kneel again. There was only one person who could ask that of him, and she was not standing before him in this moment. Hakram of the Howling Wolves, the Adjutant, kept pushing, kept standing, the rim of his shield pressed against the devil’s throat, slowly but surely reversing the positions they had a minute earlier. The shield was starting to cut into the skin, into the flesh, and Hakram did not stop. His aspect was still pushing him, and so the time had come to end things once and for all.

“ _Ultimately I drowned, swimming towards demise_  
_It was dark down there, but I died full of poise_  
_Having learned of death, I had become wise_  
_Heed me when I say that from the depths you’ll rise_  
_For beyond the sunset awaits a new sunrise._ ”

Hakram had expected the head to roll off when his shield cut it fully, but his expectations were not met. He glanced down. The devil had died with closed eyes. That much was what Hakram could give to an opponent that would leave no corpse behind. He searched for his sword, only then noticing that he had dropped it when he’d started pushing down his shield with both hands.

Adjutant picked up his blade, only then hearing the last note fading away.

* * *

Almorava of Symra had not sung. She’d strummed and played, until there was nothing left to sing. Old verses had been brought to be heard once more. She wondered if Adjutant knew whose legacy he had been recalling in this moment. Probably not, she mused sadly. How ironic, that Kharsum had foretold and enacted his own drowning, but that his writings went up in flames instead.

No, Almorava would not sing for this one. The words were not hers and she would lay no claim to them.

Today they belonged to the Adjutant.


End file.
